


Darling, I Must Confess

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Inappropriate use of a confessional booth, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic, writin dirty April
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 00:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18354797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: Arthur contacted Eames to do a quick forgery for cash transaction; no fuss, no muss. But Eames is particularly skilled at both, and it’s not his fault Arthur picked the old cathedral as a drop point.





	Darling, I Must Confess

**Author's Note:**

> For the April “Writin’ Dirty” prompt challenge posted by teacuphuman09 on tumblr. 
> 
> My special thanks to PoorWendy for the sprints and the ~~horrible~~ wonderful encouragement.  
> And, as always, to Lystan, for reading my stuff first.
> 
> Day 01 prompt: Unanswered Prayers

Eames slid the velvet curtain aside and stepped into the booth. The dark wood made it feel even smaller as he lowered himself to the padded kneeler and waited.

When the small door slid aside, Eames kept his voice low. "Bless me, Father. For I have… sinned."

"Cut the shit, Eames," came Arthur's no-nonsense voice from the other side. "Do you have them or not?"

"Hmm," he hummed. "I might. But how do I get them to you? I'm over here, being sinful, and you're all the way over there."

He could see the eye roll through the grate, but Arthur didn't exit and come round as Eames expected. He stood and twisted two previously-loosened screws to remove the grate completely.

Arthur's hand appeared. "Hand them over."

Eames rolled a smile around in his mouth and then drew the tips of his fingers over Arthur's palm, all the way down to the pads of his fingers. "And my payment?" he breathed into his skin. Arthur didn't pull away, and Eames dropped the lightest of kisses along his lifeline.

He circled Arthur's wrist with his fingers, brushed his lips over the pulse point there.

He still didn't pull away and Eames pressed his luck.

He nibbled on the pad of Arthur's thumb. He stroked those lovely long fingers, kissing the tips, and then gently easing the first two into the wet heat of his mouth. Arthur let him, his hand relaxed, and Eames licked over them, sucking and sliding them further in.

He could hear Arthur's hitched breath above him, and Eames wished he could see his face, watch the color rise in his cheeks, his parted lips. But after so many shared jobs and so many redirected advances, Eames would take what he could get.

Because Arthur had never said no. He'd just never said yes. And Eames had never pushed that boundary line until now. So he would tease unmercifully, he would wind Arthur up, he would ratchet up the sexual tension until it was so taut he could barely breathe. And he would hope for a yes.

Eames heard Arthur's breathing get louder, and his eyes slid shut, focusing on the sound. Which was when Arthur pulled away.

His first reaction was to grab him back, plead with him to stay. But as his eyes slammed open, he saw that while Arthur's hand had retreated, he wasn't leaving. In fact, Eames was at a very convenient height to notice that he was, instead, reaching for his fly.

Eames swallowed hard as Arthur's clever fingers worked open his button and zip, his perfectly pleated black trousers doing nothing to hide a very promising bulge. He had to bite back a groan as Arthur pulled himself out, a quick stroke over his lovely cut cock, and then tucked the waistband of his pants under his bollocks.

"Arthur? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm fucking sure," Arthur snapped back, and Eames swallowed again at how low his voice had gotten.

"I mean, darling, are you sure you want this? We could—"

"This," Arthur answered, his voice confident. "I want this." And then, after a beat, "If you please, Mr. Eames."

And holy hell, that was practically _begging,_ coming from Arthur. Eames' mouth watered and he scrambled to get his hands on the man in front of him. _Slow down,_ he told himself. _We are not teenagers. Now prove it._

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Arthur, I will wreck you," Eames swore, before licking up the underside and grabbing Arthur's hip to drag him flush against the confessional wall.

Arthur let out a tiny sound and Eames breathed it in as he wrapped a hand around the base of his cock. "Language," Arthur warned above him, "we're in a church," but Eames was pleased to hear his voice sounding strained.

Eames snorted. And then Eames swallowed him down.

Arthur drew in a gasp, and then carefully held his breath, if his noiselessness was anything to go by. And Eames took it as a personal challenge. He wasn't slow. He wasn't graceful. He was focused, and filthy, and god damned good at it.

Arthur's velvety skin and musk flooded his nostrils, and Eames relished the feel of him in his throat. He pulled out every trick in the book, one right after the other, pressure and suction and speed but all in the same 'fuck me' rhythm. Eames was a patient man. He could make Arthur squirm. He could make him leak. He could get him to actually beg. But every heart-stopping second in this tiny confessional, his knees making the wood beneath them creak, was aimed at one thing. Making Arthur see stars as fast and as hard as possible.

With a rush, the air whooshed out of Arthur's lungs and an open-mouthed panting replaced his silence. Eames sped up, spit rolling down his chin, then pulled off, wiped his face, and jacked Arthur roughly. A small groan, bitten off at the last second, came from Arthur's side of the divider. Eames grinned and used his tongue to flick the head of Arthur's cock, and he heard the rasp of hands being dragged down the wall and clasped into fists. He sped up again, fitting his mouth over the head and _sucking._

"Eames," Arthur breathed, and Eames sucked harder, rolling Arthur's bollocks in his hand. Then, between one beat and the next, Eames opened his throat and took Arthur all the way down, burying his nose in the well-kept hair at the base. Above him, an honest to god whimper as Arthur's release flooded his mouth and he swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed.

When he had to back off to breathe, Eames stroked Arthur through the aftershocks and adjusted himself in his trousers. He listened as Arthur's breathing slowed, and eventually, Arthur pulled away. Eames said goodbye to that beautiful cock as Arthur zipped himself back into his trousers, (the waistband of his pants only slightly damp, Eames noticed smugly,) and tucked his shirt back in. After he was put back together, had cleared his throat and rested his hands on his hips, Eames reached into his jacket pocket.

The passports had been simple enough, one for Arthur and one for Cobb. He propped them on the edge of the window and cleared his own throat.

"That was quite the payment," he said, sounding as fucked out as he felt.

He heard Arthur snort as he leaned over and retrieved something from the bench he'd vacated. The stack of notes landed next to the passports, and Arthur tugged the passports out of his hand as the notes tipped into his side of the confessional.

"I'm leaving first. Don't follow me," Arthur commanded, and put the grate back in place. Two sharp twists and then the small door slid shut, and Eames' heart sank. Was that really… it? Would it be literally months before he'd see Arthur again? Maybe longer?

Panic spurred him to rise to his feet and throw back the heavy curtain. "Wait…"

Three steps ahead of him, the slim priest with Arthur's ears turned slowly, his black clothing and white collar doing things to Eames he hadn't previously realised could be done. _Fucking hell..._

Arthur strode back to him and hissed, "What?" but Eames wasn't done gaping yet.

"Arthur, you kinky minx," Eames breathed, reaching for Arthur with one hand and his totem with the other. "Why haven't I worshipped you before now?"

"Eames," came Arthur's voice, a warning in it, and Eames headed him off.

"You can't just leave, darling." He lowered his lips to Arthur's ear. "I have things to confess to you."

He only saw the twitch of Arthur's lips through the corner of his eye, but it was definitely there. "Hotel on Rutler and Vine. Room 708. 9pm. Don't be late, Mr. Eames."


End file.
